tw: brief mention of bugs
flower:
a wilting flower.
dead and dry,
unwatered.
some invisible force drains it...
its will to rewater itself everyday disappears.
it can't even cry.
even salty tears falling from its pores might make it feel better, but...
it can't.
it can't even feel anymore.
it's vase is filled with maggots,
dirt,
rot.
all it can feel is the mold in the cracks of the glass.
it drives it insane.
but the desire to change won't be enough.
perpetually rotting,
the flower will dry forever.
until its last petal falls off and there's nothing left of it.
YOU ARE READING
my poetry isn't real ☆
Poetry"i'm a poet in the sense that i write poetry. god awful poetry that doesn't rhyme or make sense" a collection of poems, tackling all sorts of topics, from all kinds of inspirations, from a writer who's sure his work is nothing more than pretty words.
